


The Clever Watchman

by alicekittridge



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Character Study, F/F, Obsession, POV Third Person, Pining, Present Tense, Sexual Content, quite a bit of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-19 14:07:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16536029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alicekittridge/pseuds/alicekittridge
Summary: Eve has changed since last Villanelle saw her.





	The Clever Watchman

**Author's Note:**

> Been a month since I've last written anything and instead of working on chapter 12 of The Fall this came out instead. I hope you enjoy it! It was quite a bit of fun to write; there's something so entertaining about writing Villanelle stuck in a shrink's office.
> 
> Special thanks to Dani/viagiordano for her impeccable editing and ability to catch all my Kate-isms. And thank you to the Internet for lying to me about expensive champagne brands and forcing me to look at bottles that cost 200 bucks and above.

**LONDON**

London’s weather is hardly ever sunny when I’m here, Villanelle thinks, stepping out of her expensive and rented car and into the lobby of her pricey hotel home. It’s November and cold and the rain, though pleasant-sounding when trying to sleep or fuck someone senseless, reminds her of too many sepia-tinged moments from a life long-dead. A cozy yellow apartment. A bench in a garden in Moscow where a cigarette butt lay stained with nude lipstick. A walk to a shitty car underneath a dark umbrella that was followed by a close kiss. But these new ones, she reminds herself, pressing the button in the elevator to her floor, are in full, vivid color, and for that, she should gladly embrace them.

            She isn’t in London for a target. Her handler—Oleg—won’t be too pleased with this trip but these days she’s finding it hard to scrape up a care. There’ll probably be another assessment when she returns to Paris, more pictures pulled slowly from pockets. _Do you still dream about Anna? What about Eve? Why her?_ All questions Villanelle asks herself, more often than she ought to, and she whispers the answers while she unpacks. “Sometimes.” “What _about_ Eve? _Why_ Eve? Don’t you know my type?”

            The dreams of Anna are sporadic at best. Before everything, when she was first starting to become fascinated with her, Villanelle’s dreams of Anna were frequent, often tenderly erotic in their nature: a kiss, a bite and the resulting moan, a hand slipping up Anna’s skirt to press between her thighs. Now the dreams aren’t that. They’re blue-black, a soft yellow when she gets to Anna’s apartment and always, Anna has her back to Villanelle, refuses to look at her even though she’s talking to her. And in these dreams Villanelle’s hair isn’t its honey-colored sheen. But there is someone new occupying her dreams, and her mind, and it’s almost pleasant.

            While unpacking her toiletries she finds Eve’s green scarf at the bottom of her suitcase. She doesn’t remember packing it, or taking it from her old wardrobe. Both her heart and her new scar throb, and they sting when Villanelle brings the material to her nose and inhales. It smells like her suitcase, her wardrobe, and Eve. She closes her eyes, inhales again, and it could be Eve’s neck, the curve of her shoulder, that she presses her lips to. The moment only lasts for a minute. Villanelle sets the scarf aside, flicks her suitcase impatiently closed. She needs a drink.

 

            Given that it’s now the off-season, the hotel is empty. Villanelle likes the silence and the lack of people; no strange men to dodge when she finds herself at the hotel’s bar. There are a few people here, a sad-looking businessman, a quiet, older man absorbed in the soccer game playing softly from the flat-screen just above the hard liquors, and a woman in her early forties talking in heated whispers with someone over the phone.

            “Well sod that,” Villanelle hears her say, “and give him consequences. He _plagiarized,_ for god’s sake. Had he been at his precious American university they would’ve expelled him in a heartbeat.”

            Villanelle studies the woman’s reflection in the glass. Her hair is chestnut and up in a tight, professional bun, though a few unruly strands have begun to slip from it and stick out. Her clothes are decent, something a Londoner can afford, and dark blue. Even in the rain she’s wearing a skirt, and her legs are bare and shapely. Probably smooth to the touch, Villanelle thinks, and feels a stab of desire. At last the woman ends her call and approaches the bar with a long sigh, tells the bartender she’d like a rum and Coke.

            “University professor, I take it?” Villanelle says, keeping her voice low. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help but overhear your side of the conversation.”

            “Unfortunately,” the woman says. “It has its perks and then it has its side-effects. Thank you,” she says, to the bartender, and settles into the stool beside Villanelle. “We’re dealing with a plagiarism issue. The little…” She stops herself, and Villanelle smiles.

            “Bastard?” she offers.

            The woman laughs. “All right, yes, the little bastard won’t own up to it, but we’ve got him.”

            “Must be stressful.” Her laugh had been pleasant, and the little crinkle of crow’s feet at the corners of the woman’s eyes are charming. Villanelle sips her champagne, licks her lips. She ventures, “Would you like a break from it?”

            “What sort of break?”

            “The kind that involves my bed.”

            The woman looks at her, eyes wide, face turning red, and she says, “You’re so… brave.” She downs a too-big sip of her rum and Coke and Villanelle notes her struggle to swallow it.

            “You can meet me there,” Villanelle murmurs, “if it’s more comfortable for you. 534.”

            After a pause, the woman nods, and Villanelle leaves her at the bar.

            It doesn’t take long. Fifteen minutes go by and there’s a soft knock at her door. Opening it reveals the woman, laden with her things, her sand brown coat slung over the inside of her elbow. Villanelle welcomes her in, gently taking the coat from her and hanging it on the back of the desk chair nearby. Then she cups the woman’s face in her hands and asks, “All right?”

            “Yes,” she replies. “Okay.”

            Villanelle kisses her and she kisses back hesitantly. Villanelle says, “You haven’t been with women, have you?”

            “I’ve wanted to, but… no. I’m…” She pauses, gathers her words, her warm breath pleasant against Villanelle’s mouth. “I’m Emma.”

            Villanelle hums, kisses Emma again. “A pleasure,” she says. “Can I help you out of your clothes?”

            Undressing is a ritual that Villanelle indulges in when the mood calls for it. Sometimes she likes to do it quickly, wanting the woman terribly and exploring the exposed skin with lips, and other times she likes to do it slowly, savor every moment. It happens in the bedroom, with Emma, and Villanelle takes her time, starting with Emma’s hair. She’d pinned it using a ponytail and several bobby-pins; she counts each one as it falls onto the nightstand. _One, two, three, four…_ all the way to nine. When her hair is free, it’s a lovely, voluminous thing floating about Emma’s shoulders and smells like some fruity shampoo.

            “Your hair is lovely,” Villanelle says, taking it in her hands, between her fingers, wondering if Eve’s would feel similar, if she were allowed to do this. She remembers the strand she’d tucked behind Eve’s ear had been slightly coarse, but in the most pleasant way.

            “Thank you,” Emma says softly.

            Villanelle leans down and kisses her neck; it’s warm and soft and tastes like aloe vera. Meanwhile her fingers unbutton Emma’s blouse, helping her out of it, and then they slide Emma’s skirt down her legs. Emma shivers, gooseflesh sprouting over her skin, and she turns suddenly shy.

            “God,” she breathes when Villanelle kisses her neck again, “you’re young enough to be a master’s student… _my_ student…”

            Villanelle gently undoes the clip of her pastel-colored bra and watches the garment fall away. “It’s happened before,” she says. “You look a little like her.”

            Emma turns a shade of pink and her head bows when a nervous chuckle escapes. “Should I be flattered?”

            Villanelle kisses her softly, cups a breast, presses her palm into it until Emma moans. “Get on the bed, Emma.” Emma obeys, and while she sits there, Villanelle unties her boots and kicks them off, throws her socks beside them, then takes both her sweater and expensive jeans off. She won’t be naked with this woman, but a little exposure will do. She straddles Emma’s lap, pushes her shoulders until the other woman lies back. They kiss for long minutes until Emma’s hips are twitching.

            “What do you teach, Emma?” Villanelle asks, sliding lower at last, kissing across her collarbones.

            “Classics,” replies Emma, her breathing short. “Greek, to start with, then we… move to Europe and conclude with America.”

            Villanelle hums. “You’re aware, then, that the Greeks had a practice of teachers fucking their students?” She takes Emma’s underwear off and slides even further down the bed, until her lips are level with the inside of a thigh. Emma’s gazing down at her, her face red, her eyes dark and desperate and nervous.

            “Y-yes.”

            “It was thought to be a good practice,” she kisses her thigh, sucks a bruise into it, “and thought to make student and teacher closer, their relationship profound, deep and trusting, but mostly, it was a way for the student to pay the teacher.” She puts Emma’s left leg over her shoulder and spreads her hands across her hips. Then, with extreme caution, buries her face between her legs, licking slowly.

            Emma shudders, says, “Oh, my god…”

            “It was only when Plato came around,” another lick, followed by a kiss, “that he criticized that practice because he wasn’t interested in sleeping with his students.” She slips her tongue inside Emma and a hand clutches at her hair, squeezing.

            “Shit,” Emma gasps. “Shit…”

            “Do you know what term was coined because of Plato’s blatant refusal to fuck his students?” She pulls away, earning a groan of displeasure. Now that Emma’s hair is free and spread out across Villanelle’s white pillows, she can see the grey in it. She maintains eye contact with Emma when she drags a finger over her, taking in her heaving chest, the slight tremble in her lower lip. “Well?” she says. “Do you?”

            Emma inhales several times and she answers, “Platonic.”

            Villanelle rewards her with fingers, her stomach clenching at the moan that escapes, at how slick this woman is. She sits astride Emma’s hips, starts a rhythm, kisses her. “Yes,” Villanelle says, “platonic.” She leans to Emma’s ear and nibbles the lobe, which has a single pearl earring attached to it. “I can be your student for tonight, if that’s what gets you off,” Villanelle murmurs, “but bear in mind that is not what I am.” She feels rather than sees Emma nod, and she curls her fingers, presses harder. If Emma can project her fantasies, Villanelle will too.

            “Can… can we pretend?” Emma asks after a moment. “Please.”

            “Oh,” Villanelle says, pulling away, allowing herself to smile at the fact that she was right after all, “so there is a student. You naughty woman. Is it the one who plagiarized?”

            Emma shakes her head no. She’s gasping now, her hips twitching frantically, seeking something that Villanelle isn’t giving her. She says, “No, it’s… she’s…”

            “How old is she?”

            “T-twenty-three.”

            “Go on. What else?”

            “She rows… with the boys sometimes… she’s… in my class.”

            “Do you want to sleep with her?” Villanelle asks softly. “Take her home with you?”

            Emma nods.

            “Close your eyes, Emma. Let’s pretend.”

            She obeys. Her brown eye shadow looks especially prominent.

            Villanelle slows the rhythm. She asks, “What’s my name?”

            “Charlotte,” replies Emma, after a moment’s hesitation.

            “How do I talk?”

            Emma makes a sound bordering on a pleasured and pained whimper, as if revealing details about this student takes great effort. “S-South London accent.”

            “What do I call you?” Villanelle asks in the accent, and Emma visibly shivers.

            “Oh, fuck—you call me Emma, just that…”

            “I see we’ve set the professionalism aside, haven’t we?” Villanelle kisses down her body until she’s level with her working hand. “Is this the price of top marks in your class, Emma?”

            “It isn’t… I promise…”

            “I’ll hold you to that.” She puts her mouth on her, and Emma’s hands clench her hair. “What is this for, then?”

            “Not… Not everything has… a deeper meaning, Charlotte…”

            Villanelle mumbles, “It had better not be exam preparation.”

            Emma laughs. It’s loud, genuine. She’s always liked to make women laugh, would hang on to the sound if it came from Anna, had hung onto it when she’d made Eve chuckle in her bed. Emma’s laugh is pleasant music but it’s the wrong song.

            There’s a soft, “Charlotte,” from above her, and Villanelle sighs in response. Anna had said her name, sometimes, when Villanelle touched her with fingers or tongue, or slid inside her, or teased her until it was too much. Eve might do the same, might grip her hair so tightly it sends sparks of pain-pleasure into her scalp and down her spine and Villanelle moans, despite herself, and shuts her eyes too. The woman arching into her mouth is Eve, shouting as climax hits and it blossoms in her gut. She doesn’t give Emma time to catch her breath, already sliding back up and taking her own underwear off and shoving the woman between her thighs.

            “It’s all right,” Villanelle says, ditching the South London accent. “Use your mouth.”

            The first touch is hesitant, careful, like Anna’s had been the first time they’d done this kind of thing, but she was an eager learner, eager to give Villanelle what she wanted, only resisting for seconds before succumbing to her own desire. Eve would lick her reluctantly at first and then dive in, the driving emotion behind it being anger and she’d grunt at Villanelle’s tight hands in her hair—

            “Jesus,” Emma says, pulling away slightly, “your hands…”

            “You don’t like a tight hold, Eve?” She pulls her forcefully back into place and grinds, shutting her eyes, but loosens her grip. She sees Anna, her hair shining and wild, the gentle way she’d take her and it stabs her heart, almost makes her whisper Anna’s name, but the vision dissolves and is replaced with Eve, who takes her roughly, hatefully, and doesn’t lick her fingers afterwards, just wipes her mouth with the sheets and storms away.

            Emma’s face rests on her thigh and Villanelle lets her head flop against the pillow. Eve and Anna resurface, swim in the dark of her lids, her stomach, her heart.

 

            Back outside, the world is dark, betraying the still-young night. (Emma had gone back to her room in a state of sad bliss; Villanelle imagines she’s helping herself to a glass of wine while she figures out what to do about the student she fancies.) The rain has subsided into a drizzle and it kisses Villanelle’s umbrella while she stands underneath the hotel’s half-covered entryway, waiting for the valet to bring her car around. There’s a desire to see Eve after all this time, drop in on her. She’ll be asleep by now, Villanelle thinks, exhausted after a day at work where, as Villanelle understands, she’d been demoted. Poor baby, working a silly desk job after all that effort.

            According to the last read she’d had on Eve’s location, she’s living in an apartment. The husband still lives at the house, which is a bit of a shame; Villanelle had liked that house. Its layout was convenient. The apartment is just a twenty-five minute commute away from Thames House, but just enough out of the way that no one will see Villanelle, or know that she’s dropping in.

            The street is dark too, the streetlights placed at almost irregular intervals, their orange-yellow glow ominous. Villanelle enters through the main entrance; it’s dimly lit, and possibly brighter and more welcoming during the day. She takes the elevator to Eve’s floor—number 5—and strides quietly down the corridor until she reaches 516. There is no strip of light underneath the door. Either Eve is in bed or she’s out somewhere, though Villanelle regards the latter possibility as unlikely; from the many times she’s hacked into Eve’s laptop camera, Eve has taken to staying at home, only going out when a friend finally convinces her. Villanelle picks the lock and opens the door quietly, stepping inside on light feet. She hadn’t expected the apartment to smell like an artificial forest; she’d expected dust, maybe a bit of mildew. Somehow it’s a suitable smell, for Eve; she’s from Connecticut, after all, and the northeast United States is very foresty and green once you get away from its large metropolises.

            Villanelle dares not turn on a light, and so she studies the place in darkness. It’s small, quite cramped, especially given the many objects that Eve had carted all the way here. They litter the bookshelves and the little coffee table sitting in front of a tiny couch. The kitchen is the size of a wardrobe. The bathroom is slightly larger, with a clawfoot tub/shower combination and a pedestal sink. Not so luxurious, though she wouldn’t exactly mind using that bath. The real prize, though, is the bedroom, and Villanelle freezes in the doorway at the sight of a sleeping Eve.

            Her figure is barely visible in the light squeezing through the cracks in the blinds. She’s on her stomach, arms clutching a pillow; her hair is spread out, India ink against a mundane canvas. And her arms are bare, and from what Villanelle can tell, everything else is too.

            “Oh,” she whispers. There’s a familiar ache building inside her body, outweighing everything else; how can she be angry at this woman when she looks so beautiful, so vulnerable? It’s almost endearing, seeing Eve like this, hearing her deep breathing, her almost-snore. There’s a chair in the corner of the room, just across from the foot of the bed, laden with clothes; Villanelle sits, and stays.

            Her feelings about Eve had been complicated since the beginning but there was something ever-prominent: a desire, an infatuation. It’s still there, but now there’s the sting of betrayal and it feels like arctic water. How dare she be so rude, stabbing Villanelle like that. Such stupid, painful revenge that Eve had immediately regretted by the way the look of hatred had molted into horror. Villanelle brushes the scar, which has begun to itch. She’d thought of revenge, too, of getting Eve back, stabbing her in return, sinking the knife slowly and _twisting_ but those thoughts always evaporated and turned into a rain of non-violent things. Almost gentle things, once she’d taken her anger out on Eve and Eve had hit her back until she was breathless.

            Yes, she still wants her, wants her so badly; they’d nearly kissed that day on her bed and she’s been dying to know what her lips will feel like against Eve’s, what her skin tastes like, what _she_ tastes like, when she buries her face between Eve’s lovely legs. The desire is there, now, with an odd sort of longing to crawl into Eve’s bed, lay her head on her naked chest and listen to the beat of her heart. It’s strange, a violent assassin wishing for such tender things.

            Villanelle leaves before the feelings become too much. And in the dark and private quiet of her car, she undoes her jeans and imagines pressing her lips to every inch of Eve while one of Eve’s hands clenches her hair in both pleasure and defiance.

 

—

Eve has changed since last Villanelle saw her. She’s tired, there are visible bags underneath her eyes, a certain thinness about her face, but there is a new confidence about her. Her stride is quick, her chin held high rather than tucked against her chest, and her hair, that glorious inky mass, is free, bouncing off her shoulders and shining. Villanelle swallows and her stomach swims with strange feelings. For a moment she wonders what would happen if she pulled her gun from her bag and, after kissing the barrel, shot at the gap between Eve’s feet and the cement and the person walking ahead of her. She’d scream in shock and while everyone else ducked she would look around, try to determine where the shot had come from. She’d look at the chip in the concrete, right at her feet, and she would know it was Villanelle.

            But causing a scene isn’t in the books today. She’d get reprimanded by Oleg, who’d insist, “You used your weapon unnecessarily.” Villanelle is content to observe, walking the sidewalk across the street, parallel to Eve, who is dressed in all black and carrying a red Starbucks cup between gloved hands. Christmas is more than a month away and yet they’re breaking out the holiday cups already. What’s Eve’s coffee order, if she gets coffee at all? Does she take it black? Or does she put milk in it too, or sugar?

            Eve is headed for the underground. It’s evening, and if it had been sunny the world would be gold by now but instead it’s a blue-grey. Villanelle crosses the street, staying a good fifteen feet behind Eve, and follows her into the noisy, damp-smelling underground. When Eve boards her underground Villanelle takes the car beside Eve’s, smushing herself into a corner so that she can see without being seen. Eve is on the phone with someone now, presumably a co-worker; Villanelle doesn’t have the heart to take her own mobile out and make a bluejack connection to listen in on the conversation. She’s too fascinated with the way Eve’s mouth works, with the color lipstick she’d chosen for today: a nude color with a hue of red; too fascinated with how expressive she is. Eve’s face turns into a frown and Villanelle smiles, despite everything; it’s endearing.

            The ride lasts fifteen minutes and Eve steps off first. Villanelle waits seven seconds before exiting, and she continues her shadow.

            At a young age, she’d learned that looking at someone while their back was turned wasn’t a dangerous thing, at least until they caught you. She’d done it with girls in classrooms, at bars, with Anna and other women who’d become her lovers not long after, and now with Eve. But she doesn’t allow herself to get too lost in her gazing. She’s busy thinking of what to do with Eve, wondering—once she’s caught hold of Eve’s elbow—where she’ll lead her. In the midst of all this Villanelle realizes she’s hungry. There’s a Greek place not far from here, pricey, but delicious. She widens her steps and is behind Eve in less than a minute, grabbing her elbow just as she’s mounting the stairs.

            “Jesus _Christ!_ ” Eve exclaims, pulling away almost immediately but freezing, trapped against the wall with one foot on a step and the other on the ground. Her coffee cup is half-crushed, its contents dripping from her glove.

            “You were so confident before,” Villanelle says. “What’s happened?”

            “ _You_ happened. Do you—do you get joy out of sneaking up on people?”

            Before Villanelle can answer, a blonde businesswoman says, to Eve, “Excuse me, are you all right?”

            “Fine,” Eve grumbles. “We’re having a moment.”

            “Are you hungry?” Villanelle asks once the woman’s out of earshot. “You’ve been living off cheapo takeout for a while.” Eve says nothing. Villanelle smiles, just a bit, and tugs Eve along. “Let’s have dinner.”

            They walk to the Greek place and in the entryway Eve says, “This isn’t cheapo.”

            “Would I take you to a cheap place, Eve?” Never. “The lamb is to die for.”

            Their table is by a large window, which is dotted with raindrops that reflect car lights and displays older architecture and bundled-up passersby. Eve slings her coat over the back of her chair and throws her gloves down onto the table before sitting. Her sweater is an appealing black turtleneck, not designer but better than most of the things Villanelle had found in her suitcase in Berlin so many months ago.

            “What… What are you doing here?” Eve says at last.

            “Visiting,” replies Villanelle, crossing her ankles but not leaning back in her chair. She’d let her guard down once and it’d been a mistake.

            “Are you going to kill someone?”

            “Not that kind of visiting.” Eve isn’t looking at her. Her dark eyes wander to the outside world, to the rest of the restaurant and its patrons. That could change, Villanelle thinks, if she had Eve on the edge of orgasm and said, “Look at me, Eve.”

            “I didn’t know assassins took vacations.”

            “It’s not all work and no play, unlike you.”

            “Deskwork isn’t all bad,” says Eve.

            “I’m doing you a favor bringing you here.”

            “Have you been stalking me?”

            “Wow,” Villanelle says, reaching for the menu, “that’s a grand leap to take.”

            “What would you call it, then?”

            Villanelle shrugs. “Checking up.”

            Eve tilts her head back, releases a chuckle of disbelief. “So,” she says, “you’ve been _checking up_ on me for… however long it’s been. A year, just about? And you’re taking me to dinner out of— out of concern.”

            Quick conclusions to jump to, but the hammer is close to the nail. Villanelle isn’t and wasn’t concerned about Eve; she knows the woman can handle herself just fine. Villanelle says, “I’m not the type to worry.”

            “Yet you’ve dragged me here because you noticed my eating habits.”

            “I pay attention to details, Eve.” Villanelle turns the menu around, points to a dish. “We could share the moussaka, if you’re a fan of lamb but want other things with it.”

            “Fine,” Eve says, and when a waiter comes by she gets a glass of white wine.

            Despite her obvious reluctance to be here, Eve digs into her half of the dish with vigor. It’s probably the most luxurious dinner she’s had in a while, though Villanelle can do better. There are many expensive restaurants in London, all of which she can afford; she’ll take Eve to some one day, gladly spend her money on her, if ever there’s a day in which Eve isn’t cold and angry and scared.

            “You were gone for a while,” Eve says. She’s picking at her food now, dragging pieces around her plate with the fork. “I… I knew you were in Paris but after that…”

            Villanelle scoffs, shoves the last of her moussaka into her mouth. “Now who’s stalking?” she asks around the bite. She’d gotten herself stitched up in Paris, holed up in another apartment under a new name, and once she’d healed enough to travel, she didn’t stay anywhere for too long. She’d stayed in France, then in Austria and Switzerland—she’d liked Switzerland and its mountains and vast, green fields in the summertime—and Italy and now she’s back in London, eating dinner with someone she’d both been angry at and wanted terribly. She says, “I had to get my bearings. You nearly killed me, with your inexperienced stabbing.” There’d also been handlers and jobs and a few slight reprimands but Eve doesn’t need to know those details.

            “I did,” says Eve, and it isn’t a question. It’s agreement.

            Villanelle isn’t up to revisiting old ghosts. There’d been enough of that earlier in the week. “Finish up,” she says. “Then I will get you coffee.”

 

            Eve’s apartment is different in the daylight. More cluttered with belongings, little messes here and there, a stack of plates in days-old water in the corner of the kitchen sink—signs of Eve’s busy life.

            “I um…” Eve begins when they’re in the kitchen. “I haven’t cleaned, I wasn’t expecting—”

            “My apartment was worse.” Villanelle makes herself at home in a kitchen chair. The one across from her is from a different set of furniture. “Did you rescue these from a charity shop?”

            “Not exactly.” Eve stands at the sink, water running but hands frozen at her sides. Maybe she’s remembering the last time they were in a kitchen together. Maybe she feels Villanelle’s knife against her breastbone. “Do you want water? Something stronger?”

            “I want to know what _you_ want.”

            Eve laughs, finally plunges her hands into the sink. “My job,” she says. “My—my life.”

            “You have a life, Eve.”

            “Yeah, well, it’s changed because of your intervention.” She’s scrubbing the plates harder than is necessary, and from this angle, Villanelle can see the tightness in her jaw.

            Villanelle asks, a little softer this time, “Do you regret meeting me?”

            Eve pauses. The water from the faucet lets off steam, shining briefly in the light of the tiny kitchen window before disappearing. “No,” she whispers after a while. “No, I don’t.” Eve shakes her head, like she’s coming back to herself, and continues with the plates.

            The kitchen feels warmer, and whatever ice had been in Villanelle’s chest is now gone. She stands slowly but Eve still freezes at her careful movement, is still when Villanelle comes to stand beside her, when Villanelle tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

            “What do you want, Eve?” she says. “You must want something, if you have no regrets about meeting me.” Her hair is glorious and oh this close she can smell it, and a familiar perfume but it isn’t Villanelle’s signature one; it’s lighter, more feminine, with only a hint of musk. She might taste it if she lets her tongue grace Eve’s pulse points.

            “I…” Eve says, trailing off. Her cheeks are redder, her breathing a little faster. Then, so soft Villanelle barely hears it, “You. I want _you_. Wanted. I… Meditated on you, t-thought about you even after you destroyed my life and took my best friend and my husband and my _career_ …”

            Villanelle inhales a slow, shaky breath. Her hand finds its way to Eve’s hip, turns her gently to her. Eve still wants her too. Had tried to find her after Paris but had to give up but that didn’t mean she’d ever stopped thinking about her. Villanelle murmurs, “Me too.” And she leans to kiss Eve but hovers just inches away from her mouth, giving Eve a chance to back away, if she’s not ready. But Eve tells her “ _Kiss_ me” and she does, softly at first, tasting, absorbing, _feeling._ She moans into the second one, which is more hurried, clumsier, and propels Eve backwards, towards the fridge, needing to get her hands on her, feel her skin.

            Eve’s lips are soft, kissing back just as feverishly, hands not wandering but staying clawed in Villanelle’s hair, pulling just enough to sting. It’s marvelous, Villanelle thinks, moving at last to Eve’s neck, better than fantasy. And like the last time she’d leaned close, Eve tilts her head to the side, allowing access. Her pulse is hammering. It tastes like her perfume.

            Along with _La Villanelle_ many moons ago Villanelle had sent a smaller bottle too, a sample, really. It was a vanilla one with other spices mixed in, and on Eve, it’s exquisite. “I think,” she breathes, “I knew you’d like the vanilla one.”

            “I like the other one too,” Eve says, “but it’s not me.”

            “You can keep it.”

            “What, to remember you by?”

            Villanelle tastes her skin again, drags teeth over it, feeling and hearing the pleased sound. “If that’s what helps you sleep.” Her fingers are underneath Eve’s sweater, tracing the soft skin just above her waist. She wants inside her, needs to be, and so she moves to the button on Eve’s jeans and waits.

            “Oh, god I—” Eve says, but is cut off sharply by a ringing phone.

            Villanelle sighs, plants one last kiss to Eve’s neck. “Work?” she questions.

            “Yeah. I’ll just…” She slides out from between Villanelle and the fridge, walking stiffly to her purse in the entryway to the apartment.

            Fucking hell, she’s alight. And pulsing. Villanelle’s fingers tingle like she’d been walking in the cold for hours and just now stepped into the warm apartment, and her lips still feel Eve’s against them. She could, by all means, rip the phone from Eve’s hand and take her to bed but by the tone of Eve’s voice, it’s important. She detaches herself from the fridge and gets herself a glass of water, downing it in four gulps. Eve comes back, looking slightly apologetic.

            “I have to… You should go,” she says.

            Villanelle nods, feeling her mouth turn down slightly in disappointment. “I have a hotel across town, Four Seasons. 534, if you’d like to continue this.”

            “Inviting me for a nightcap?” But Eve shakes her head. “Can’t.”

            “Okay.” Villanelle makes her way to the entrance. “Goodnight Eve.”

            A little ways down the corridor, she pauses before the tiny elevator and runs her thumb over her lip. She’ll be back. Surprise Eve again, take her to lunch or to dinner or even just out for ice cream and maybe they’ll pick up where this left off. She’ll get to feel Eve, have her underneath her and on her, take her and be taken but for now, all there is is the kiss and the almost. It’ll have to do.

            That night she doesn’t dream of Anna. She dreams of Eve’s kitchen, alive with dinner smells and a sink filled with dish soap bubbles, and taking her in that mismatched chair.

 

**PARIS**

“I hope you had a good trip, Villanelle.”

            Oleg disposes of the sign that bore one of Villanelle’s cover names and opens the passenger door of his Volkswagen for her. The inside of it smells like citrus and something else.

            “Did you have sex in here?” Villanelle asks when he’s settled into the driver’s seat.

            “I’m not the kind of man who conducts his affairs in cars,” says Oleg. “Is the air freshener not working?”

            The citrus is already strong. It’s giving her a headache. “It’s fine. Where are we going?”

            “You have a doctor’s appointment.”

            And of course, when they’re driving up to the modern-looking office building, it’s an assessment. Villanelle sighs in displeasure, allowing Oleg to lead her through the place and into the elevator, where too-cheery instrumental music plays from speakers above their heads.

            “Is this necessary?” Villanelle asks at last. “I’m fine.”

            “It’s just a precaution.”

            “To see if I’m still having dreams?”

            Oleg doesn’t answer, just holds the elevator doors for her. Konstantin, if he were here, would’ve at least given a short “Yes,” or a little nod.

            Villanelle follows him down a hallway lined with various oil paintings, some impressionistic, others cubist or surreal. She’s seen some of these at various galleries all over Europe; all paintings hailed as masterworks that make their viewers feel things but all Villanelle ever felt when looking at them was curiosity: _Why do people like these things?_ (She could appreciate detail or color, certainly, but it’s never more than that.)

            They turn right and Oleg pauses in front of a closed door. There’s an engraved silver sign that reads _Dr. Daphne Friedmann._ Villanelle blows through her lips as Oleg knocks twice. The last psychologist she’d seen had been nice to look at; at least she’d had that to counteract the unpleasantness of the whole situation.

            “Come in,” says Dr. Friedmann, and Oleg opens the door.

            Inside, the office is spacious and modern, windows facing a busy street that’s visible through the cracked blinds. It looks more like an apartment than an office, Villanelle thinks, taking in the rather bland and unimpressive décor that occupies it. And sitting on a charcoal grey futon is the doctor herself. Mid-forties, mousy brown hair, dressed business-casual in dark slacks and sweater, obviously designer brand. She’s making last-minute notes on a yellow legal pad, blue pen scribbling furiously, the handwriting something out of the 20th century.

            “Have a seat, Villanelle,” Dr. Friedmann says. “You, too, Oleg, if you’d like.”

            “I’d prefer to stand for a minute,” Oleg says, and makes himself invisible in a corner.

            Villanelle sits in the matching futon across from Dr. Friedmann, tempted to put her feet up on it too but she’s here not only to be examined but to make an impression. She compartmentalizes her impatience, forcing it down like she does when waiting on a slow target. She sets aside her thoughts of Eve and the memory of kissing her. She studies Dr. Friedmann, takes in her glasses—plain brown frames, old-fashioned looking—and her posture, how she uses her leg to brace her legal pad against instead of the coffee table between them. There’s a bottle of Perrier by her foot, half-drunk and sweating. What sorts of people does this woman see, besides ones like Villanelle? Are they ordinary people? Boring people?

            At last Dr. Friedmann sets aside her notepad and gives Villanelle her gaze. “I apologize,” she says. “You’re a little early.”

            “Why am I here?” Villanelle asks.

            “A checkup. That’s all this is. You like mineral water, don’t you?”

            It takes all her effort not to let out a frustrated growl. “Yes.”

            “Is Perrier all right?”

            Either this is how Dr. Friedmann always is or it’s in an effort to get through to Villanelle. Well, she can certainly try, and perhaps it’ll be fun to play around with her, but Oleg is in the corner. He, too, has read her file and knows her that way; she’ll have to be at least a little truthful here.

            Dr. Friedmann fetches the bottle from her little fridge in the far corner of her office. Villanelle thinks she was raised in Germany, or even Austria, because of the last name and accent, but the accent also bears hints of Norway. Maybe she left her home country and spent several years living in Oslo before she was recruited. That had to have been twenty years ago, at least; her employers only employ people they know have extensive experience in a field—when it comes to handlers and psychologists and trainers. They take the assassins young.

            “Thank you,” Villanelle says when Dr. Friedmann hands her the green bottle.

            “Of course.” She settles back down, takes up her pad again. “Do you dream, Villanelle?”

            “Who doesn’t?” She takes a sip of her water. “Yes, I dream.”

            “In Russian?”

            “Almost never. They’re usually in English.”

            Dr. Friedmann writes it down. “And when do you dream in Russian, Villanelle?”

            Sometimes with Anna, though very rarely. Those dreams are usually in English and French, since those were the languages they conversed in most often. She admits, “When I dream of Anna.”

            A hum from Dr. Friedmann. She states as she writes, “The last time you were asked if you dreamt of Anna, you didn’t answer the doctor’s question.” A quick stroke of her pen, and then she’s looking at her. “Were you afraid to admit it?”

            “I don’t get afraid.”

            “Ashamed, then.”

            Villanelle clicks her tongue. “Don’t really feel that, either.” Dr. Friedmann has an expectant expression on her face, and Villanelle says, “Fine. I didn’t want to tell him because I wanted to forget I had a dream about her. Happy?”

            “I’m curious to know what the dreams are about,” says Dr. Friedmann.

            “This is getting a bit tedious.”

            “It’s important that I know this. I’d hate to have to put you on leave.”

            That, Villanelle knows, could be two things. A quick execution by bullet to the base of the skull or a temporary revocation of the job and an excessive amount of examination. Probably conducted in some remote area. She fingers her bottle, traces the label. “I usually dream that I am back at her apartment. It’s a cold dream. And she has her back to me and she’s talking and I can understand her but it sounds like she’s underwater.”

            “I see.”

            You don’t, Villanelle wants to say. You don’t wake up feeling angry and rejected and drenched in sweat. She scrapes her fingernail through the wet label on the bottle in lieu of cracking the damn thing over Dr. Friedmann’s pretty head.

            “You don’t dream of intimate things with her?” Dr. Friedmann continues.

            She used to. Oh, did she used to. Kissing her, feeling her over her clothes or completely naked, having her in bed or against a wall or in the ridiculous cactus chair. But they stopped the night she’d murdered Max. Villanelle swallows another sip of mineral water along with the echoes of _You sick girl!_ “No,” she says lowly, “I don’t.”

            “I can assume, then, that you feel nothing towards her.”

            It was true, what Villanelle had told Irina back in Russia. She didn’t love Anna anymore. But to say that there was nothing would be a lie. There was _something_ and it felt a lot like rejection and it felt a lot like what she felt when she’d stared at Anna’s suddenly lifeless body after she’d fallen heavily to the floor, when she’d burned Anna’s photographs and books in a beach bonfire.

            “Your assumption is right, doctor,” Villanelle manages. Another sip of water, and it’s the most she’s ever drank in the presence of a shrink.

            More scribbling notes. The scratch of the pen makes her teeth grind. Then Dr. Friedmann asks, “What about Eve Polastri?”

            The kiss comes rushing back. The feel of Eve’s lips, the taste of her skin. How she’d almost undone Eve’s jeans and been mere seconds away from sliding inside her.

            “What about her?” says Villanelle. She’s back to compartmentalizing, but the desire blooming in her gut, between her legs, is struggling to be tamed.

            “You were recently in London but not for a job.”

            “I was taking time off.”

            “And you saw Eve Polastri.”

            “It’s taboo to see old friends?”

            “If I understand correctly,” Dr. Friedmann says, looking up from her notepad, “she stabbed you.”

            “She did,” Villanelle agrees. “I think she has regrets about it.”

            “What makes you say that?”

            “She told me.” A half-truth. The regret had been written on Eve’s face the moment Villanelle whimpered “It hurts.” Before Dr. Friedmann can ask, Villanelle says, “I dream about Eve.”

            Dr. Friedmann marks that down. “What are they about?”

            “The stabbing.” It’s the truth. It’s the dream that appears the most often. “It always changes at the end.”

            “To what?”

            “I fuck her.” Villanelle turns her Perrier in her hands. “Or she fucks me. A person like you would say it represents what I want in real life.”

            “There is record of you telling a former handler it was a crush you had on Eve Polastri and that you would feel nothing once you’d been in bed with her.” Dr. Friedmann’s pen taps against the top of her notepad. “Do you still stand by those words?”

            It happens with her lovers, especially the ones she dominates. The chase over, the power is on Villanelle’s side. Like with Emma just two weeks earlier. But it wouldn’t happen with Eve. She isn’t the type to raise a white flag, even when lowering a weapon. Villanelle replies, “They don’t apply to Eve.”

            Dr. Friedmann and Oleg share a glance. “What you told Nikita Mikhailov was a lie?”

            Villanelle shrugs. “She thought I was compromised. I had to provide evidence that I wasn’t.”

            “You would say you aren’t.” A statement, not a question.

            “I can still do my job.” Villanelle downs a good portion of her Perrier. She can multitask, fly back and forth between London and wherever when she wants to see Eve. People do it all the time.

            There’s a long silence as Dr. Friedmann makes her notes. She eventually says, “I think she’s fine, Oleg. Visiting should be no trouble. And dreams are just dreams.”

            Villanelle stands, straightens her jacket. “Tedious and pointless.”

            “If your dreams ever become troubling,” Dr. Friedmann adds, “or if you find yourself in a bind, you can always come back.”

            Villanelle smirks, less than friendly. “I hope not.”

            This time Oleg follows her through the office building and down to the ground floor.

 

            It’s evening by the time Villanelle gets a moment to herself. Back at her apartment, she showered and dressed in warmer clothes to prepare for a rainy night out. Then she’d collapsed on the comfortable, expensive bed, slept off the flight, masturbated to Eve for half an hour after waking up and finally decided to go out. Flying back to London so soon would be a stupid move and so she’ll have to get her pleasure elsewhere.

            She finds herself at a quieter bar rather than a club. The patrons here conduct their business with a little more discreetness, talking to each other like everything is a heavy secret. Accompanied only by a glass of Perignon champagne, she looks around the place for someone suitable. Already several interested gazes, from men and women alike, have fallen on her but they’re all too young.

            Had she flown back to London, she would’ve taken Eve out to an expensive dinner and involved her in a small pool of details about her recent trip to Paris. “The new shrink’s a nightmare,” she’d say.

            Eve would look at her in surprise, maybe hold back a guffaw. “You have a shrink?”

            “Employer-issued but yes, I do.”

            “I don’t think you talk about feelings in those sessions, do you?”

            “She had me talk about my dreams.”

            “And?” There’d be an interested look on Eve’s face, eager to know what someone like Villanelle dreams.

            “I dream about sex, Eve,” she’d tell her, “like every normal human. Don’t expect anything special.”

            Over the rim of her glass Villanelle spots an older woman sitting by herself, nursing a glass of rosé. In the golden light her shoulder-length hair is black and her lipstick is almost blood-red. Her clothes are that of a well-bred Parisian. She’s probably someone who holds a well-paid profession. Their eyes meet and the woman glances quickly away but then, mere seconds later, looks back. An invitation to approach. Villanelle takes her champagne with her, pausing a polite distance from the woman’s table. She asks, in French, “What’re you drinking?”

            “Domaine Tempier,” replies the woman. “A little cheap but the taste is heavenly.”

            “I may have to throw this one out and try it.” The woman smiles. “May I sit?”

            “Please.” She gestures to the chair, and Villanelle takes it. “Is that Perignon champagne?”

            “It is.”

            “God,” the woman says. “I shouldn’t be surprised, considering the way you’re dressed. What do you do?”

            “Real estate to Paris’s finest.” Villanelle lowers her voice, “Don’t tell them, but the lot of them are really a bunch of arseholes.”

            The woman laughs. Her eyes light up when she does. “Goodness. I’d never. But to be honest, you look more like a… a fancy caterer.”

            “Really?” Villanelle looks down at herself. “In this?” She’s wearing a white, collared silk shirt with a V-neck pullover sweater and expensive slacks with black boots. Comfortable clothes, something less flashy.

            “I suppose.” There are crinkles at the corners of the woman’s warm, light brown eyes.

            “Tell me what you need,” Villanelle says, “and I will cater to it.”

            The woman’s face turns a light shade of pink, and she looks suddenly shy. She raises her glass to her lips and it’s then Villanelle notices the tan line on her ring finger. She’s probably here out of loneliness, hoping that someone would keep her company. She wipes her mouth with her napkin, staining it with her red lipstick, and says, softly, “You wouldn’t happen to have more where that champagne came from, do you?”

            “I’ll get you the bottle. I hope you have time for a nightcap.” The desire to see Eve will still be there but at least there’s this to sate her for a little while.

            They leave the bar in a taxi, in the back of which the woman introduces herself as Marie. Villanelle learns she’s a graphic designer for a well-known company. She also writes on the side but, she says, it’s unlikely to go anywhere.

            The taxi pulls up outside Marie’s apartment. They head inside, getting out of the rain, the paper bag around the bottle of Perignon kissed with several sprinkles. Once in the apartment, Marie wastes no time in opening the bottle, excited to be drinking something so pricey, nervous to be in Villanelle’s presence. Villanelle looks about the place, wondering if Marie has ever been with a woman, taking in the books and the family photos. No signs of a husband or significant other. They’re probably all relatives.

            “Would you like another glass?” Marie asks from the kitchen.

            “Please,” Villanelle says.

            They drink standing up. Marie asks about her work and Villanelle dives into a convincing cover story, all the while guessing Marie’s age. She pins it down to about forty-four. Well-established, well-read. Recently divorced.

            Eventually she finishes her own glass and pries Marie’s away, leaning into her space to kiss her. Marie gasps softly in shock. The smack of suction that follows the parting of their lips reverberates in the cozy kitchen.

            “Let me take you to bed,” Villanelle says gently. She’d say it that way with Eve, too, as proof that she wouldn’t hurt her—unless Eve asked.

            Marie nods, incapable of saying anything, and Villanelle leads her there. It’s a bigger room, the furniture intricate and old, the bedclothes modern-looking. Unlike Eve’s bedroom, it’s tidy.

            She undresses Marie quickly but carefully, wanting to be gentler with her. She takes her own clothes off too, sets every piece on the foot of the bed to allow for a quick dress. Marie prefers the slow, tongue-filled kisses, but once they’ve fallen into bed and Villanelle has established a rhythm, she likes it fast. The bed squeaks and Marie shies away, gasps, “Wait…”

            “Afraid your neighbors will get jealous of the good sex you’re having?”

            Marie shakes her head. “B-being heard.”

            Villanelle strokes her cheeks, her own breath shorter. “It’s just me, Marie.” She’d let Eve be as unrestrained as she wanted. She kisses back down, recalling the taste of Eve’s skin when she explores Marie’s throat. Would Eve moan, too, if Villanelle teased her nipples? Certainly she would, if she nibbled one as she slipped back inside and made the pace relentless.

            Marie grips Villanelle’s shoulders when she orgasms, begs for another one not seconds after. Villanelle moans, unable to help it, and gives in to the request with her mouth.

            “Again,” Eve would say. She’d gladly take Eve until she was limp and spent.

            Later, she comes against Marie’s thigh.

            “Won’t you stay?” Marie asks when Villanelle’s tugging on her clothes.

            “Thank you, but I’ve got a work thing.” Villanelle ties her boots, checks her phone. There’s a new email in her box from Oleg. She tucks it away. “You can keep the Perignon.”

**Author's Note:**

> This work mostly came about because I wanted a plan to form in V's head and I wanted it to almost work out but end up not doing so. And because I enjoy writing about Villanelle and her fucks/what she does when not working or seeing Eve. Thank you for reading!


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